Stories, music, poems…

889. Teabag

Well, we have finally met Mr and Mrs Fawcett. We were invited for morning tea. Quite frankly there were a number of things we found disturbing.

Mrs Fawcett, I cannot bring myself to call her Edna, especially after having met her just the once, made the tea using teabags. It’s a process I don’t overly mind, especially if one is in a hurry; and we were in a hurry given what I have to tell you next. We couldn’t wait to drink our tea and leave.

She put the milk in with the teabag. I can think of little else so disgusting. Milk in the cup with the tea bag! After which boiling water was added. But, for that brief moment, when milk sits at the bottom of the cup with the teabag in a sort of brown gunk! Yuck! None of our children were brought up to do that, unlike the children of Mr and Mrs Fawcett. It’s all most unacceptable. And all served in Duralex tempered glass cups!

Mrs Fawcett couldn’t stop talking; talk, talk, talk about nothing. That was when your father had this inspired thought: it’s almost impossible to turn a Fawcett off! He was just thinking about it, and he snorted his tea all over their formica-topped table! It’s almost impossible to turn a Fawcett off! It was hilarious! Hilarious!

So dear, to cut to the chase, your father and I forbid you to marry into that family, and as far as we’re concerned the engagement is off.

I did enjoy it. But now the question arises: which of the sisters were you? Rose (the slut), Daisy (the sweet but unkempt, inveterate reader of romance novels) or Violet, (who owns a home in the suburbs with enough room for a pony)?

What? Not that I make tea that way, but if I was the child of the visitors, I’d be fleeing, FLEEEING to the arms of the Fawcetts, who seem harmless and fun compared to mean, judgmental mummy and daddy…